The story that Richard Burton tells George Segal out in the back yard—George leaning up against the tree as Nick is sitting on the rope swing.

Yes, my dears, it’s a true tear-jerker about—this kid who accidentally shoots his mother, then kills his father in an awful car accident…

The story’s really about me though and what I would have truly wanted to do with both George and Martha—my shitty pair of loathsome parents who I wanted to simply get rid of once & for all.

But they beat me to it—knowing what I was seriously planning to do. Yes, they beat me to it—and had me fucking committed to an insane asylum before I could do the much-needed dastardly deed.

Martha: [derogatorily, to George] Hey, creepy! Hey creepy!

George: Yes, Martha? Can I get you something?

Martha: Ah, well, sure. You can, um, you can kiss my royal ass, honey, if you're of a mind to.

George: No. There are limits, Martha. I mean, a man can put up with only so much before he descends a rung or two down the old evolutionary ladder, just simply to like Kiss your Big Fat Royal Ass, my dear.

Martha: But George, you used to kiss it all the time?

George: Now, Martha, I’ll hold your hand when it's dark and you're afraid of our son the boogeyman coming back to blow our brains out. And I will hide your gin bottles under the bed so no one can see them—but I will not kiss your truly big fat royal ass any more. And that, as they say, is that.

Martha: Well, you're going bald. And you can’t get it up anymore. And even if you wanted to…

George: Only a blind man with a white cane would want to fuck you Martha, being blind and easily deceived, only such a man could be tricked into even possibly fucking you now, my dearest.

[The doorbell rings]

George: Jesus. It’s him again. Don’t answer it.

Nick: [to Honey] We'd better be going, Honey.

George: Oh no. No, you can’t. Our birthday guest has arrived. We get to see him once a year. He hasn’t changed in at all, you know—not since he was sixteen years old and we committed him.

Martha: Don’t listen to George. Our son is still alive and well—and enjoying being a pampered guest at a simply fabulously ritzy jet-set spa. A very expensive one too—way up there in the Swiss Alps, you know.

George: Foolish fickle fop. Don’t listen to Martha. We committed him to an insane asylum a year ago, since he hated us so much he wanted to rub us out.

Martha: That’s a bald-faced, naked Lie!

George: See? He takes after his mother. Oh Jeez! Just look... Now, Martha has even changed into her sexy, slinky, black silk negligee—and Martha never does that for me anymore. It’s just for you, Nick and Honey. And demented Danny. Martha hasn't changed for me in simply years. If Martha is changing, that means we're going to play our little game.

Honey: Game? I simply love to play games.

George: Yes, Honey, our game’s called "Our Dead Young Son the Boogeyman” game. You're being accorded quite an auspicious honor, my dears, and you mustn't forget that Martha has always been incestuously in love with her smutty young juvenile delinquent sixteen-year-old handsome son.

[Nick and Honey act mock-shocked]

George: Martha loves her cute son simply desperately, you know, but I’ll leave that sort of naughty dirty talk to Martha herself.

[Martha throws her glass of gin at George]

Martha: You make me sick.

George: Well, you make me sick.

Martha: That's different.

[The doorbell rings again]

Martha: Hey! It's him again...

George: Hark! Jungle sounds.

Martha: Well, George, aren't you gonna answer it?

George: Primitive animal noises.

George: He’s a monster—our son really is, you know.

Martha: You’re loud and vulgar, but I wear the pants in this house because—somebody's got to. And my son is not a monster. He’s just, well, simply very well-hung and needy, that’s all…

George: You’re the needy one. You've spoiled him, Martha—made him self-indulgent, willful, dirty-minded, liquor-ridden and simply hopelessly sex-obsessed... it's all your fucking fault...

Martha: CRAP! It’s always just CRAP! I'm not gonna even try to deal with all this Georgie-Pie CRAP any more. There was a time back then, yeah, back when we first got married, when I could get through to him, when maybe we could have cut through all this, this CRAP. But it's over, and I'm not gonna even try.

[The doorbell rings again]

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